


Tough to Swallow

by Enchantable



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Angst, Brothers, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Uncle-Nephew Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2013-08-17
Packaged: 2017-12-23 18:55:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/929921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enchantable/pseuds/Enchantable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott Hansen doesn't celebrate with the rest of the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tough to Swallow

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Can you write something about Scott finding out Chuck's dead?

He finds out the Kaiju are gone like the rest of the world: on the tv. 

He’s sitting in some bar nursing something non-alcoholic and trying to remember the taste of liquor when the cheers start. They’re all gone. Breach is closed and the world is safe. There are new heroes to laude and he lifts his glass up in a silent toast that they handle the shit of fame better than he did. The broadcast continues and the streets of Sydney seem to all cheer at once. 

Except for him. 

He’s doubled over in the bathroom being sick because the names of the deceased are out. 

His nephew’s dead. 

His brother isn’t. 

He gets sick until there’s nothing in his stomach but the knots. Chuck’s gone. Fucking blown himself to hell so he can save the world like he promised he would one day. And Herc’s got his arm in a sling and a pulse in his neck he knows he’ll never forgive himself for. He spits water out of his mouth and tries to think of the name of that flea bag the two of them were carrying last time he saw them. Thinks dogs are supposed to help with that traumatic shit right?

Except one dog isn’t going to be enough. 

He walks home with his hands jammed into his pockets and his head down. It’s not like anyones going to recognize him but there’s always the off chance. He doesn’t want to take it. He gets upstairs fine but it’s slow. Mostly because he keeps remembering all the nights Herc would drag his sorry ass up the stairs. 

He’s packing before he knows what he’s doing. 

His fingers fist in the t-shit as he tries to think about what he’s doing. Chuck’s dead and Herc’s a fucking marshall now. He doubts he wants his screw up of a brother there to fuck things up again. But then he remembers after Angela died and the way Herc looked when he and Chuck had shown up at his door. Family. They’d needed family. He stuff the t-shirt into his bag as he mentally apologizes to Ange and mum for being the only family his too-good brother has left. Again. 

Last minute flights are fucking expensive but he’s got cash. Turns out when you aren’t drinking and gambling it away, money tends to stick around. He waves down the stewardess and almost asks for a drink but changes his mind and orders soda instead. He’d kill someone for a drink but Herc’s like a bloodhound and he’s got that fleabag and he knows that there’s not enough gum in the world to hide something like that. He wipes a hand across his chin instead and wishes that he also had time to shave. 

The plane touches down and he gets a cab that takes him as close to the Shatterdome as possible. 

He fucking hates Shatterdomes. 

He fucking hates them but as the structure looms into view it feels like he’s coming home. Which is ridiculous because he isn’t. This isn’t his shatterdome and home is across the world. Herc’s here though and he figures that has to count for something. He steps out amidst the cheering crowd and wonders if he should have brought flowers for his nephew and old man Pentecost. Then he remembers there are no bodies and he shoulders his pack, pushing forward through the people. 

It takes a long time. 

He likes the struggle though. Reminds him of a physical fight that he hasn’t had in a long time past the ones he poses to himself at the shit boxing club he goes to. He wades through and shoulder checks a few people to see what’ll happen but shit does. Everyone’s too happy and he feels the prickles of rage under his skin. He wants to shout that they should calm the fuck down because someone died. But he just grunts and pushes a bit harder. 

He finally makes it to a check point where people are trying to get in and shoves someone aside to tell his name to the guard and thrust identification under his nose. 

They let him in. 

He half hopes they won’t but they do and he leaves the crowd far behind as he walks along the deck, remembering the days when choppers used to take him everywhere. He gets within five feet of the door when they open and Herc comes out. Suddenly he finds himself wishing for the crowd and the Kaiju and all the liquor in the universe because this is a horrible fucking idea. Herc’s in a damn suit with dark smudges under his reddened eyes and that flea bag at his heels. 

He looks like shit. 

Worse than shit because at least someone who looks like shit smells and needs a shave and can clean up. Herc’s clean and he’s not drunk. He looks hollow, like someone scooped out everything inside him. Or like one of the animals in the zoo whose given up. Herc’s fucking broken and he wishes he didn’t understand that nearly as well as he does. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and pulls them out, shows him they’re empty but it doesn’t even seem to register. 

"Heard about your boy," he says. 

Herc nods and eyes him warily. Or as warily as someone whose got two feet in the grave can eye someone. 

"Wasn’t gonna have a funeral," he grunts out finally and his voice is hoarse, "got nothing to bury."

A twisted grimace comes to Herc’s lips. 

"Got nothing to bury again,” Herc amends and the grimace seems to take over Herc’s whole face. 

"Christ," he says and ignores the flea bag who snarls, instead grabbing Herc by his suit and dragging him inside out of the view of the reports. He all but shoves him into some supply closet and locks the door. Spills are going to have to wait. Herc’s shaking and he’s making sounds like a wounded animal. He holds himself still and lets the blows land and then Herc’s fingers nearly rip holes in his shirt. 

He wishes he could punch something. 

Instead he just stands there and listens to his brother sob and that damn flea bag growl like this is somehow his fault. In the dark he shoots the thing a look of pure fury because he knows it’s his fault even just a little. That if things had gone the way they were supposed to Chuck’d be a tech or something working towards being a pilot and it would be him and Herc blowing themselves to kingdom come. 

Instead they’re just two broken men and it’s the universes sick fucking joke that he’s the less broken of them now. 

"He’s gone," Herc moans and then dissolves into repeating his son’s name and some fucked up apology to his dead wife. 

Scott just grips the hand that grips him and prays that the flea bag isn’t going to start some shit he can’t finish. He tries not to think about Chuck as that knock kneed brat with his dinosaur t-shirts and huge smile whenever he and Herc would come home. Tries not to think about the way he’d run down the steps shouting with joy, with Angela laughing as they dragged their sorry asses towards home. 

Tries not to think about how beautiful she was or how that death makes this all the worse because Herc’s family is gone and he’ll never be able to bury any of them. Wonders instead if when Herc goes, when he goes, will they continue the fucked up tradition? He looks down at Herc and wishes for one stupid moment he could tell him everything’s going to be alright, like Herc would when they were kids. But he can’t because it isn’t and he’s not in the practice of lying anymore. 

Instead when Herc draws up he lets him get in three good shots before he hits back.

Oh and he doesn’t kill the flea bag when he bites him. He thinks that should count for something too.


End file.
